A World in Us Page 13

  “Oh no, no, no. Please go ahead.”

  So there we were. The couple and the mistress. Who felt like me.

  “Today we went and saw an exhibition of Monet’s water lilies.”

  I looked at Gilles in shock. He nodded his head. Affirmative. My husband was doing something other than watching TV, checking chessbase.com or training at the gym. Who was this man? Because it sure wasn’t my husband.

  “But I love impressionism,” I said, wading through my confusion.

  “I didn’t know that.” Gilles looked at me.

  “I visited Paul Cézanne’s house and specialised in him when I did my history of art exams. That print in the toilet is Picasso. The reason I chose my apartment was because it was in rue Maurice Utrillo.”

  “It was also a hundred metres from the pub.”

  “Yes.”

  I knew that it was as much my fault as his that we never moved anywhere or did anything. More, in fact. Because he wouldn’t do anything without me.

  During our monogamous years together, Gilles and I had lost sight of who we were when we first met; the balance that we achieved so happily and easily at first had become a caricature of those characteristics that fell to each extreme percentile. I loved his easygoing nature; he loved my insatiable curiosity. Until his easygoing nature became lazy and passive, and my curiosity was transformed into a thirst to learn more and more and to take power. In fact, each of us had become a product of the other and, ironically, as with many couples, this had driven us apart. Together we symbiotically fed each other’s weaknesses.

  These weaknesses in my case were sometimes also my strengths. My ambition and drive had led to success in my professional sphere. But the weakness that I nourished in my husband had left him dissatisfied with his life. And with our marriage. Which left me dissatisfied with him. Because arguments between Gilles and me were few and far between. I gave him little to argue with. Nothing to push against. Indeed, the only time I had seen him shaking with rage was once before our marriage during an argument with his father. But he argued with his new girlfriend. And this one with Elena was a humdinger.

  “I feel like you’re invading my home,” shouted Gilles.

  “Is this about making the bed?” She was laughing at him.

  “Why are you treating me like a child?” he screamed back.

  Meanwhile, I sat on the sofa watching them in fascination. It’s not often you get to see a soap opera up close and personal. And seeing Gilles scream was ever so slightly attractive.

  “Why is it that you can’t make the bed for your wife?” asked Elena patronisingly. “What else were you doing with your day? I suppose checking your email is more important than doing anything for her, hmm?”

  “She doesn’t care about the bed!” he said, exasperated. “Louisa and I, we have our own dynamic.”

  “But she does!” said Elena. “You’ve heard her say so every morning this week. You don’t care about her!”

  “I love her and she knows I do. And what business is it of yours, my marriage? We can sort our own affairs out, thank you!”

  “Maybe you can, but Louisa’s unhappy and you don’t even see it. Her relationship with Morten is far more equal.”

  There it was. And once out, it couldn’t be unspoken. I sat with bated breath for Gilles’s reply. Surely he could win this argument. Surely he would be able to counteract what Elena said. I wanted my marriage to work. I needed his belief that it would too.

  But Gilles simply retreated into himself and said stubbornly, “We love each other and we’re building a future together.”

  Elena lost it. And started yelling. “She’s building a future. You aren’t doing much. You don’t have a job. You’re not even trying to get a job. You don’t help round the house. You resent even making the bed. If you aren’t careful, she’ll leave you.”

  Oh my God.

  It was strange how the verbalisation of an idea could suddenly make your vision shift focus. In that instant I realised that I wanted children and had wanted them for a long time and that whilst I was scared, I was also ready. As I looked at Gilles stuttering apoplectically, I also realised that he wasn’t. Not one little bit. I had always known it wasn’t yet. But I had assumed that it was sometime soon. I had been very wrong. If my husband resented making the bed, then how much more would he resent the time out of his schedule to look after a child?

  In the theoretical world of polyamory I could have it all. Gilles was my best friend and soulmate — even if he didn’t want children. Morten would be having children with Elena first, and although I loved him, I wouldn’t expect children to come from that relationship for some years. So I was left with one man I loved who didn’t want children and one man I loved with whom I couldn’t have children any time soon, if at all.

  So what was I doing with either of them?

  19

  Elena left two days later. They had made up again. Regrouped. Rebonded. And I had heard it all through the thin walls of the guest bedroom. Furtive creaks of the bed interspersed with breathy sighs and the ultimate guttural moan from Gilles. I knew it well. But before it had made me happy. Now it was killing me. He accompanied her to the airport. Gilles was due back at six. Instead, a stranger came back at eight.

  “You cut your hair! Your long curly hair,” I said. I felt truly bereft, in the same way that a mother regrets cutting her baby’s golden locks off and they never return.

  Someone who vaguely looked like Gilles grinned at me.

  “I wanted it to be a surprise. Elena says it looks really good.”

  I said nothing more. But I looked so horrified that he dared not approach me. I turned and talked to the table.

  “Your dinner’s cold. I waited for you to eat.”

  “You didn’t have to,” he said warily.

  “I thought that we would finally have a romantic evening together. I haven’t seen you alone in seven days.”

  “We still can. I’ll heat it up.”

  He didn’t get it. I had looked forward to being with him. I’d missed him. I’d longed for him. And if he had felt the same, then he would have come home to be with me just as soon as he could. But he had chosen to spend two hours longer than necessary cutting his hair.

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”

  “What’s wrong, Louisa?” His tone was menacing. And he was prepared for a fight. Gilles, who never fought with me.

  “You went and cut your hair,” I said sadly. I meant that he had spent the time away from me. But he misunderstood me.

  “So what? It’s my hair, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know you anymore,” I said. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why you do what you do. And now you don’t even look like you anymore.”

  The man I had married was a poet and a dreamer. This man was shorn, muscular and dressed to kill. He and Elena had been shopping earlier that day.

  I had seen the pattern of a two-person marriage played out again and again. And rarely had I seen a couple where the partnership was, or remained, equal. One was naturally dom­in­ant and the other was submissive — and if each was lucky, they played their roles happily, neither of them seeking to redefine themselves. In another workable configuration, one was dominant in some aspects whilst another took charge of still others. But more often than not, the couples found themselves imbalanced.

  In at least one of my closest friends’ relationships, this dynamic had resulted in divorce. My friends were ostensibly strong women who had sought men to nurture, care for…and control, because they were so insecure that they needed to be needed. And when they fed off the neediness enough, they were strong enough to stand on their own two feet, and iron­ic­al­ly they came to despise what had become a parasite. They fed off the person that they initially sought to care for, to make themselves feel better and more secure.


  I didn’t despise them for it, any more than I despised myself. For I was fast discovering that I was one of these women. Unconsciously, I had sought a man whom I could take care of and with whom I thought I could build a future, diminishing his responsibilities and his power until I was left with a shell who was dependent on me and with whom I was not satisfied. My husband had searched for and found a maternal figure who would absolve him of responsibility and manage his life.

  And there I was.

  But Elena had changed all of that. My man-child had rebelled and grown. He had cut his hair. The outward symbol of inner transformation. And with it had become a man who was my husband and yet a stranger. This man sighed and started to eat. “We need to talk,” he said. My heart leapt and my throat closed.

  “About my future. Our future. The fitness course is all good and well, but I have to get a job. And since we’re moving to England, I have to get one there. And I think it should be as soon as possible.”

  “But I won’t be able to move for another four months,” I said, stating the obvious.

  The deal with my company had been signed, but these things took time. And I certainly hadn’t confided in my boss the real reason for the move. Which meant that Gilles was planning to leave Paris before me. Way before me.

  I couldn’t ask the question I wanted to. Which was, “Are you leaving me for Elena?” So I started with another argument.

  “But what about the dogs?” I said. “I can’t look after them here by myself.”

  Gilles had wanted dogs for years. And in a misguided effort to make him happy, seven months earlier I had finally given my consent, despite my misgivings. I knew how much work dogs took. But apparently he hadn’t.

  “Getting the dogs was a mistake. I resent the time it takes having to take care of them.”

  It wasn’t like I didn’t know this. But a mistake? Our dogs were a mistake?

  “So you’re giving up responsibility. Why am I not surprised?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you don’t know how to handle responsibility. We took on the dogs and committed to giving them a good home. You can’t just abandon them like this.”

  “It’s not a mistake to admit we made a mistake,” said Gilles, as if he was repeating a phrase from memory.

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this,” I said. “This isn’t you. This is Elena talking.”

  He couldn’t deny it.

  “Yes. But she’s only saying what I have felt for a long time.”

  “So what? You’re giving up, yet again, when the going gets tough? And Elena knows you better than I do inside five months.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “Elena knows me in a different way. You and I have blind spots with each other.”

  I was furious, frustrated and yes, jealous. The ultimate polyamorous sin.

  “She hasn’t seen you give up on all your studies and your jobs for the past six years. She doesn’t know if it would be better for you to actually stick to something for once in your life.”

  “They are preventing me from getting back to work.”

  I hated that he had a point. “Only because you use them as an excuse.”

  “An excuse, maybe. But also a reason. You know we can’t leave them alone for extended periods of time.”

  He was right. Which meant Elena was also right. And I was therefore wrong. “But I love them.” I was crying as the dogs licked the tears off my face, not knowing that we were in the middle of abandoning them. Gilles was crying too. He came over and held me. I had no defences left.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” he said. “If you see another way, tell me. Our relationship is terribly unequal. And my getting a job is the first step to rebalance it.”

  “So you’re leaving. Don’t assume that you’ll move back in with me, then,” I said spitefully.

  I had to be mean. It was my last resort. My life. My husband. My dogs. My marriage. My sanity. I was losing it all. I rocked myself back and forth on the sofa and the dogs licked my tears. It was so rare that Gilles made a decision. When he did, there was not much I could do about it.

  This was an unknown realm, where we formed different partnerships independently of the other one. Whilst we had been venturing into the utopia of building relationships together, this new eventuality was dangerous. Suddenly, my husband was blossoming with another person and developing his relationship outside of the boundaries of our marriage, with trust as my only safeguard.

  At first I had noticed nothing but a different sexuality. And although it was strange, it was no threat. We continued to love each other just as before, and our love life had never been better. And then doubt started to creep in. Emails from my new sisterwife gave rise to suspicion. He had confided in her concerns that he had not shared with me. She and I conversed easily over email, but the man she talked about was a different personality. The man that I thought I knew inside out — the passive, unambitious, loving, gentle husband — was emerging to become dominant, proactive and responsible, where with me he had been childlike, submissive and stubborn.

  And this man, I didn’t know. I had done everything for him and us for several years. I did not expect much from him, and I got even less. Elena required higher standards. And somehow he met them. She required someone to take care of her and her needs, just as she took care of him and his needs in her own, but very different, way.

  When Morten heard about our decision, he came over to Paris whilst Gilles visited London. With his new haircut and wearing his black velvet jacket.

  “You have to look on the good side, darling,” Morten said. “The dog-sitter costs money, you were worried about the neighbours’ complaints and when you try to find a place to live it will be so much easier. Landlords in England are really picky about pets.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “This isn’t just about the dogs. It’s everything. Elena is so much better for Gilles than I am.”

  “How can you say that? You’ve supported him through the last six years.”

  “But I didn’t give him anything to strive towards. He hasn’t grown with me.”

  In five months with Elena, Gilles had transformed himself. I was happy for him, but that didn’t stop the guilt. The pain. Or the doubts.

  “Okay, stop giving yourself a guilt trip. You didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t taking charge of anything. How long were you supposed to wait? You have to understand that both of you loved and needed each other at that time. People change.”

  “But he helped me so much. He loved me and I blossomed. I have destroyed him.”

  “It takes two to tango,” Morten replied. “You gave him love. You gave him marriage. You gave him financial support. The rest was up to him.”

  “Should I let him go?” I asked. My question was not really to Morten. It was to myself.

  “Let him go where? His choice is to be with you and with Elena. You’re not questioning Gilles now, you’re questioning polyamory again.”

  The path out of Gilles’s and my settled patterns of interaction was certainly not proving to be an easy one. And I was in pain.

  It was so tempting to fall back into my familiar grooves and give up the struggle. It seemed too hard when there was probably an easier option out there. An unknown partner, Mr. X, who would suit me better now that I had six years of change under my belt.

  In the final analysis Gilles and I loved each other still, but the holes that we had gouged in each other’s personalities meant that together we had only been living a half-life. And I didn’t know whether it was too late to rebuild it.

  20

  My family had written many letters to me over the months since our announcement; none had picked up the phone, however, because of course they couldn’t actually talk about sex in person.

  “This letter is not to pass
judgment...but what you are doing is wrong.”

  “We’ve seen it all before — wife-swapping is the unfancy term for it.”

  “You have opened yourself up to an unimaginable world of hurt.”

  “How could you be so selfish and immature as to shame your family this way?”

  “As a Christian, I believe in the sanctity of marriage and the blessing of that sacred union with children. I can never accept the path you have chosen.”

  “No one of any consequence is interested in what goes on in your sex life.”

  Whilst opinions varied about who and who might not be consequential, I could say with some certainty that, on the contrary, there was much interest in our sex life. Even if our experience was more than mere “sex life,” since it had repercussions on every facet of my life, we had had offers from magazines, newspapers and several famous daytime TV shows.

  Of course they were interested in our intimate inter­action — who slept with whom. Twosomes? Threesomes? Foursomes?

  Sex, after all, sold. But they were also interested in exactly how we overcame the common demons of jealousy and insecurity as well as the more practical elements of household arrangements and time management.

  “In Sweden, I had a publishing deal,” said Elena.

  “What were you writing about?” I asked curiously. I was impressed. Getting a publishing deal was, well, a big deal in my world.

  “I was writing a story about my life.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Things happened to Elena. She created excitement wherever she went. Often out of huge conflict. But that was how it happened: if you wanted one, you had to accept the other. It was devilishly scintillating being part of her world. But also full of drama.

  And so one day she said, “Marie Claire wants to do a piece on us with a photo shoot. But I would write it. It could be my big break.”

  My reaction was apportioned between support, envy and fear. Support because — wow — I had read some of Elena’s writing before. There was no doubt she had talent, and Marie Claire was a great glossy to showcase it. Envy because, in truth, I loved writing and would have loved to be an author. And above all, fear. Us in a magazine meant coming out in public and further shaming my family, many of whom already felt sick to their stomachs about my relationship status. My brothers had refused to talk to me since our announcement. And my mother was the youngest of six in a high-status British family; even if she supported my right to choose, it didn’t mean she liked my choice. Especially now that her five brothers and sisters were on the warpath.